


I Need No One

by Jack Ironsides (JackIronsides)



Series: Pictures at a (Friendship) Exhibition [2]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Gen, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, if Netflix won't show them being friends then by gum i'll do it myself
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-11
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:34:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28010043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JackIronsides/pseuds/Jack%20Ironsides
Summary: Geralt knows it’s only a matter of time before he has to leave the bard behind.He’s had human friends before, but none have followed him like this boy has: simply because he wishes to follow. Geralt can’t account for it.He knows it’s selfish, but he likes having Jaskier with him. Even though he knows it won’t last.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Pictures at a (Friendship) Exhibition [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2051538
Comments: 67
Kudos: 216





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a companion fic to _We’re Not Friends_. That one is Jaskier’s perspective; here is Geralt’s. You probably don’t _have_ to read both, but they’re designed to work together.

Geralt knows it’s only a matter of time before he has to leave the bard behind.

He doesn’t know why the boy has chosen to follow him. He’s had human friends before; of course he has. Not many of them, perhaps: unsurprising considering the way he looks and the way his mutations have made him so that he’s just a little too fast, a little too agile. He doesn’t quite move like a human, and so he makes most of them uneasy at best, and hostile and fearful at worst.

But every few years, when he’s in their towns, he’ll seek out his friends, and perhaps they’ll have a drink. Some of them will even offer him a guest room, which is always welcome. It’s nice to get a break from inns, where he sometimes has to push through a hostile and drunken crowd downstairs to get to his room upstairs. Where sometimes, even after he’s paid, the innkeeper will change their mind and tell him he’s not welcome.

But none of them have followed like this boy has. Not because he and Geralt happen to be going in the same direction and it’s always nice to have company on the road. Simply because he wishes to follow. Geralt can’t account for it.

The first night they shared a camp, the bard called him a hero. Which was patently absurd, but Geralt knew enough of bards and troubadours to know of their flexibility with the truth; he himself had first met Galeas the Chaste when the man was being thrown out of a brothel for being too rough with the girls.

Then he said that his friends wouldn’t have defended him like Geralt had with the elves, and Geralt suddenly understood the previous compliment a little better. It was awkward, as far as overtures of friendship went, but Geralt thought he saw in him the raw wound of someone who hadn’t been valued by the people he called friends. And it wasn’t as though that was something completely foreign to a witcher.

When Geralt accepted the awkward little overture, as tentative as it was, Geralt didn’t need to look at the bard to sense all the changes in his body that whispered his emotions into Geralt’s ear. The surprise mixed with a little bit of pleasure.

He’d half expected that they’d part ways at the next town. But no; here they are in its only inn, sharing a room and, apparently, sharing a bed.

‘Phew!’ the boy says, dropping his pack on the ground before resting his lute against it, rather more gently. ‘Looking forward to sleeping on a proper palliasse. I don’t mind telling you, Geralt, that sharing a bed with someone I actually know and like is a vast improvement over what normally happens in full inns. The last man I wound up sharing a bed with snored, and he kept tucking his cold feet between my calves, which I thought was a little impolite since I didn’t even know his name. What about you? Any bedsharing horror stories?’

‘They don’t usually make travellers share beds with witchers,’ Geralt says. It feels like a confession. He isn’t sure why he’s telling the bard this. ‘Bad for business. If the rooms are full enough that beds have to be shared, I’m usually instructed to go sleep in the stables.’

‘Geralt, that’s _terrible_ ,’ says the bard, before his heartbeat kicks up a notch. ‘Oh no, I’m not going to be a bother, am I? I could always sleep on the floor.’

It’s rather sweet of him to offer, but his misery is rather transparent.

‘It’s fine,’ he dismisses. ‘I’ve shared beds before. I’ve shared beds with’— _Eskel—_ ‘other witchers before.’

He isn’t quite sure why he keeps his brother’s name behind his teeth, but sharing it feels like a vulnerability too far in a conversation that is already making him feel as though he’s stripped bare.

‘I don’t want to make you uncomfortable,’ frets the bard.

‘Bard. It’s fine.’

The bard looks at him, as though reading in his face all the things Geralt is keeping back. Geralt does not shift uncomfortably; the urge has been largely trained out of him.

‘Jaskier,’ says the bard. ‘If we’re sharing a bed. I really would prefer you use my name.’

‘It’s fine, Jaskier,’ Geralt says, although Jaskier is still looking at him as though not trusting Geralt to speak the truth. ‘Might be nice to share a bed with someone who isn’t Roach. With a friend.’

‘Does she hog the covers?’ grins Jaskier. ‘What do you do when she rolls on top of you?’

‘Push her off,’ Geralt grins back.

It’s the right thing to say, apparently. Jaskier has relaxed now, and isn’t smelling anxious. Which makes Geralt feel less tense.

He settles on the floor and goes through his pack methodically, as his habit when he gets to a town. He takes everything out, sorts it, and takes an inventory of what herbs he has on him, and which potions he still has plenty of, and which he needs to fetch ingredients for. He doesn’t, strictly speaking, need to do this. He keeps a tally in his head as he uses things. But they were taught to do it before they started walking the Path, and Geralt has kept the habit. It helps him get his head in order when he’s feeling adrift. And he’s had enough experiences of potion bottles being broken, or corks being damaged or jostled out of their vials and the contents draining away, of herbs being crushed beyond usefulness or stolen from his pack. Taking account of what he has is the sensible option.

‘Geraaalllltt,’ comes a groan from the bed.

He looks up. Jaskier has taken his boots off and is lying on his back. He looks like he isn’t planning up any time soon. One arm is thrown over his face, and the other is flung out in a seemingly random direction, the hand opening and closing in a grabbing motion.

Geralt looks at him blankly for a moment, before following the line of Jaskier’s arm and realising what he wants. His lute is just about in Geralt’s reach, and if Geralt leans forward, he should be able to pass it over without even getting up.

Jaskier’s hand closes on the neck of his lute’s case with a pleased little noise. He takes the lute from its case largely by feel, without sitting up. He lies it across himself and begins checking its tuning.

It’s a comical scene, and Geralt smiles to himself. He lets his eyes wander aimlessly down Jaskier’s form as he takes things out of his pack, and he soon realises the reason for the tableau. Jaskier’s feet are pink and slightly swollen. There are blisters on the ball of each foot, and likely on the back of his heels, too, although those aren’t visible considering how he’s lying. Geralt almost feels guilty; it’s a reminder of how soft the boy is. How unsuited to the road.

And a reminder that he won’t be able to keep up. That their travelling together won’t be for particularly long. _I should remember where I leave him,_ Geralt thinks. _So that I can say hello when I’m in town again. Take him for a drink._

In a way, it takes some of the guilt out of his anticipated pleasure at having a friend to curl up to in bed tonight. It’s a very _human_ pleasure, for all that Geralt isn’t. He doesn’t get many of those. The warmth of another person in your bed, the comfort of having their heartbeat to listen to as you fall asleep. Something that almost every other traveller has experienced.

It’s only a temporary arrangement, he reminds himself. Sooner or later, Geralt will have to leave him behind.


	2. Chapter 2

Geralt keeps walking the Path, and Jaskier keeps coming with him. The boy is something of a mystery, although he is good company. Geralt feels a little guilty about letting himself get attached when he knows they’ll have to part ways at some stage. And he feels a little guilty about letting Jaskier get attached to him.

But it is nice to not be alone. It’s nice to have someone else to talk to other than Roach.

They’ve arrived in a small town in Lyria, and secured lodgings in what is apparently the better of the two inns. Jaskier enthuses over the chance to sleep in a _warm, dry bed_ , and Geralt privately agrees. They’ve been walking through the rain for two days now, and it feels like even his bones are waterlogged. No doubt Roach will enjoy sleeping in the dry tonight, too.

They change in their room before heading down for dinner, and lay their wet things out the best they can around the room’s fireplace to dry. Jaskier’s bag isn’t waterproof; Geralt thinks that he ought to do something about that, but for the moment Jaskier’s spare clothes live in his pack.

It’s a quiet night in the inn. Apparently today is one of the days that the townsfolk set aside to honour a local spirit, who watches over their harvest. It involves quiet home worship, apparently. Aldo the publican says there’s not much point in Jaskier performing, but if they’re staying in town a day or two, they’d be glad of the entertainment tomorrow night. The day after their spirit day is one for community, he says, which means the pub is always busy. And he’d even give Jaskier his dinner for free.

Jaskier’s face lights up, although he doesn’t accept without looking to Geralt. Geralt shrugs in acquiescence. They haven’t heard of any contracts locally, and giving Jaskier the chance to earn some coin would make the journey easier on both of them. Besides, busy pubs are hotbeds of gossip. There might be stories that are useful to Geralt.

This means that they actually have an evening to themselves, without Jaskier needing to spend it performing, or Geralt needing to go hunting to feed them. The inn can’t provide a bath, regretfully, the publican says, but that’s because there is a fair-sized public bathhouse which they can visit tomorrow. Apparently there are mineral springs around here which are said to be healing, and people come from leagues away to bathe in them.

‘Definitely worth staying the extra day,’ sighs Jaskier. ‘Maybe it’ll help heal up that gash on your arm.’

‘It’s mostly better,’ shrugs Geralt.

The food isn’t amazing, but it’s tasty enough, and has generous enough portions that even Geralt feels nearly satiated. Jaskier winds up pushing the last of his towards Geralt, announcing that he couldn’t _possibly_ eat any more, that he might actually _split_ something, so _please_ , won’t Geralt put him out of his _misery_?

This is one benefit to travelling with a friend, Geralt thinks, that he hadn’t actually anticipated: the occasional extra portion of food.

They stay at their table after dinner is done, drinking and talking. The beer here isn’t great; apparently it’s not commonly drunk locally. Jaskier chats with the publican and finds out that the local tipple of choice is an anise liquor that Geralt’s already forgotten the name of. A few coins gets them a ceramic bottle and a couple of small cups.

There’s a reason for the small cups, Geralt discovers after they’ve been making their way through it for a while. Jaskier is drunker than Geralt’s seen him yet.

‘’s good I don’t have to play tonight,’ Jaskier giggles. ‘I don’t think my fingers would behave.’

Geralt chuckles. ‘Well, we can’t have that.’

‘I have a reputation to build!’ Jaskier says, in that charmingly over-serious manner of the drunk. ‘I can’t disappoint my public, or I’ll never get famous. And if I don’t get famous, then how am I to repair _your_ reputation?’

‘How indeed,’ Geralt murmurs.

Jaskier frowns.

‘You know you don’t _have_ to,’ says Geralt. ‘It’s probably a fool’s errand anyway. I don’t think there’s much to be done to make the people less afraid of us.’

‘You’re wrong,’ says Jaskier stubbornly. ‘I can do it. You’ll see.’

‘Perhaps,’ says Geralt. He can’t help but smile at Jaskier, but his heart is breaking a little for the boy. He hasn’t learnt yet how entrenched prejudice is. Hitching his cart to Geralt will be the fastest way for him to learn that, but Geralt suddenly doesn’t want him to. He doesn’t want any of this boy’s happiness to be dented by the way the world treats those who are different. Even just being allied with Geralt could bring some of that for himself.

Jaskier sniffs at his cup, and his nose wrinkles at the fumes. He still swallows the entire cupful in one go, gasping with the strength.

‘Besides,’ says Jaskier. ‘If I don’t follow through on my promise, there isn’t much use in your keeping me around, is there?’

He’s joking, but Geralt suspects he isn’t, at the same time. He remembers those friends Jaskier mentioned when they first met: the ones who wouldn’t have saved him from the elves.

‘You don’t need to do anything for me to want to keep you around,’ Geralt says. It’s too honest, and part of him hopes that Jaskier doesn’t remember in the morning. ‘Your company is enough. Just having you as a companion is enough.’ He swallows. He’s not good at words. ‘We’re friends. You don’t have to prove yourself to me.’

Jaskier gives him a bit of a soppy look, which only goes to underline how drunk he is. He reaches out to pat Geralt’s hand that’s resting on the table. He misses the first couple of times. Geralt can’t help but smile at him.

‘I’m so glad,’ Jaskier says, still patting Geralt’s hand. ‘You’re my bes’ frien’ too, you know. My bessss’ friennnn’.’

‘It’s probably time to take this festival upstairs,’ says Geralt, trying to take the cup from Jaskier’s other hand.

‘No! Geralt! I’m not going upstairs unless we can bring the booze. There’s still plenty left in the bottle.’

‘Yeah, all right,’ says Geralt. He manages to coax the bard out of his seat and onto his feet. Jaskier insists on holding onto the half-empty bottle of anise spirit. Presumably to stop Geralt from leaving it behind and ‘forgetting’ to pick it up again. ‘Come on, let’s go upstairs.’

‘I knew you’d surrender to my sheer animal magnetism one day,’ Jaskier says with an exaggerated leer.

‘Yes, that’s me,’ says Geralt. ‘Completely helpless before you. Magnetically attracted to you.’

Jaskier starts giggling, which then sets Geralt off.

Geralt isn’t used to having someone he can relax around, other than his family. It’s absurdly nice.

He keeps one arm out behind Jaskier as they climb the stairs, since the bard’s co-ordination seems to be a fair way from normal. But they get to the top of the narrow staircase largely without incident, aside from Jaskier bouncing off Geralt’s side and into the walls a few times. He’s still giggling, though, so he’s probably okay.

Geralt puts himself in charge of the door, since he suspects his fingers are more lithe than Jaskier’s in this moment.

Jaskier is entertaining himself by leaning on the wall and mumble-singing the lyrics to a filthy song that’s something about a fishmonger.

‘In you go,’ Geralt says, opening the door wide and gesturing Jaskier inside. ‘Before you wake up the rest of the inn.’

He assumes that Jaskier will set up camp on the bed, but he sets himself on the rug before the fire, pushing aside some of their drying clothes.

Geralt will try to remember to put everything back before the fire again before they head to sleep. They’ll regret it in the morning if they don’t have any dry clothes even to go to the bathhouse in.

Jaskier pats the rug opposite himself, and Geralt takes his position biddably enough.

‘Ugh, how are you still so co-ordinated?’ complains Jaskier. ‘My head barely feels connected to the rest of my body.’

‘Well, I’m not drunk,’ Geralt points out. ‘That makes a big difference.’

‘ _How_ are you not drunk?’ demands Jaskier. ‘You’ve had _at least_ as much as I have.’

‘Benefits of being a witcher,’ he says with a sardonic smile. ‘Alcohol doesn’t work on us the same way.’

‘So you can’t get drunk?’ Jaskier says mournfully, petting Geralt’s cheek with his hand.

‘I _can_ ,’ he replies.

And he can feel that the liquor _has_ affected him, a little, even though he’s a long way from being drunk. Jaskier touching his face feels _so nice_. He wants to press his cheek into Jaskier’s hand so he can really appreciate the feeling of it. But he doesn’t, because he’s a witcher, and that would be unbecoming. And is the sort of thing that might freak Jaskier out.

‘It just takes a lot more for me than it does for you,’ he explains.

‘How _much_ more?’ asks Jaskier, as though he’s already planning on buying out an entire bar’s stock.

Geralt grins. ‘Well, a couple of big bottles of that aniseed stuff _might_ do the trick. If I didn’t share them with anyone. But usually I take White Gull. It’s an alcohol that we use to make several of our potions.’

Jaskier makes a mock offended face at him and clutches at his chest. ‘Have you been _holding out_ on me? Secretly carrying alcohol around and then _not sharing it_?’

‘ _Mostly_ I keep it around for _potions_ ,’ Geralt points out. ‘Which are important in helping me not die. Besides, I’m not sure if it’s ... safe for humans to drink.’

He frowns a little. Maybe he can ask Vesemir this winter. Find out whether any of his potions would be safe for Jaskier. Not so he can join Geralt on hunts, it’s just—Geralt realises that the boy could get _hurt_ , and he suddenly realises that he doesn’t know what he could do to help. Which—It’s an awful thought. He’s distantly aware that it’s frightening, for all that fear is an emotion that he’s tamped down on so thoroughly that even the twinge he feels right now feels like it’s happening to someone else.

But Vesemir will likely know. And if his potions are all as toxic to Jaskier as he suspects, maybe Vesemir will know ones that aren’t. Humans must have _something_ they can do if they get injured. Otherwise they’d all be dropping like flies, surely, and none of them would meet their thirtieth birthdays.

Even if it isn’t for Jaskier’s benefit. Geralt would like to be sure what to do. He might wind up with another human travelling with him again. It’s happened once now. It might happen again.

‘Why don’t you get some out?’ Jaskier suggests.

‘What?’ says Geralt.

‘Some of your Whygul.’

‘White Gull,’ corrects Geralt. ‘No, I’d ... rather not.’

‘Are you just going to _leave me_ to drink alone?’ says Jaskier, swirling the liquor bottle.

‘Not unless you’re not planning on sharing any more,’ says Geralt, taking the bottle.

He left his cup downstairs, he realises. And he’s not of a mood to go down and get it. He tips the bottle up and drinks straight from the neck instead.

When he looks up, he realises Jaskier is staring at him.

‘What?’ he says.

‘Nothing,’ says Jaskier hurriedly. ‘Just thinking that if I’d drunk that much at once I might actually die on the spot.’

His heart is racing, too. Geralt’s made him uncomfortable.

‘Sorry,’ says Geralt, offering Jaskier the bottle.

‘No, it’s fine,’ says Jaskier waving him off. ‘I still have half a cup, and I should probably slow down anyway, if I don’t want to wind up being sick out the window.’

Geralt makes a face. ‘Please don’t.’

‘See! So you’re actually doing us both a favour by holding onto the bottle, and maybe having a drink out of it. Because I’m uhh. You’ve probably noticed? I’m not always great at remembering I’ve made decisions like “I’m going to have _maaaybe_ one more drink then bed”, and then I accidentally have six more drinks? And then I remember, but it’s too late, because I’m in an alleyway spewing my guts up and trying to remember which way is up. Especially when I’m drinking. Drunk. It’s harder to remember I’ve decided things are off-limits. So. Easier if they’re ... not in my reach.’

Jaskier gives a nervous little laugh, fluttering his hands, before grabbing at his little cup and taking a delicate sip.

‘Anyway,’ he continues. ‘Why don’t you want to drink the Whygul thing?’

‘I—’ Geralt begins, then isn’t sure how to go on. He frowns. ‘I ... I don’t really like getting drunk. In towns. I—Hmm. I haven’t had the best experience with most humans. Better to be safe, and be ready to go at a moment’s notice, if I need to. Usually if I have paid for a room already it’s safe, but ... There have been times when I have and then the landlord comes to kick me out because he’s just had a party of travellers come in, so he wants to give the room to them. It’s probably less likely to happen while I travel with you, but ... It’s hard to relax.’

‘That’s—That’s _shit_ ,’ says Jaskier passionately, which surprises a laugh from Geralt. ‘I mean it. That’s shit. You shouldn’t be treated like that.’

Geralt shrugs. Whether or not he _should_ be treated that way doesn’t seem very material when he _is_ treated that way.

‘What about on the road?’ Jaskier asks.

‘What _about_ on the road?’ Geralt asks in return.

‘I mean, would you feel safe while we’re travelling? If we’re not in a town?’

‘I ... suppose,’ says Geralt cautiously. ‘It would depend where we are. Whether there were creatures nearby.’

‘Obviously,’ Jaskier says, waving Geralt’s concerns away with a hand. ‘But if there weren’t? You’d feel safe?’

Geralt shrugs. ‘Sure.’ He thinks about it. ‘I could set Yrden down first. That would help.’

Jaskier beams at him. ‘All right. I’ll have to remember to see if I can get another bottle of that aniseed stuff in the morning. And next time we go to the market, we’ll have to make sure we stock up on things so that you have whatever you need to have enough of this Whygul stuff—’

‘ _White. Gull_ ,’ says Geralt clearly. ‘Like the bird.’

‘ _Ohhh_ ,’ says Jaskier. ‘Well, that’s obvious in retrospect. I thought it was just named for some place I’d never heard of, up in the mysterious North.’

Geralt laughs. ‘No. And we don’t need to, you know.’

‘It’s not about _need_ ,’ says Jaskier. ‘It’s about you getting to _relax_ for once. Besides, you’re developing quite the collection of embarrassing stories about me when I’m drunk. I need to be able to turn the tables occasionally. It’s cruel of you to always be so staid and sober.’

Geralt laughs again. ‘All right. I don’t know that I’m any different when I’m drunk, though.’

‘That’s easy for you to _say_ ,’ says Jaskier. ‘You’re not drunk _now_. I’ve almost never met a man who cops to how embarrassing he is when he’s drunk. Just as you never meet a man who gets seasick when he’s on land. But as soon as he’s on a ship, it’s a different story.’

‘Just so long as you remember I warned you that I’m probably absolutely no fun,’ smiles Geralt.

‘I have been thoroughly warned,’ Jaskier says with an overly serious expression. ‘Oof, bedtime, I think. Geralt. Help me up. My legs aren’t working.’

Geralt laughs at him, but helps him clamber to his feet.

Jaskier frowns as he fumbles with the many buttons on his doublet. Geralt wonders if he should help. Is that crossing some kind of boundary? They are friends now, though. Is that the kind of thing that humans do for their friends?

By the time he decides that he should ask, Jaskier’s managed to get the last button undone. He shrugs the doublet off, making a jaw-cracking yawn as he does so.

Geralt attends to their drying clothes by the fire as Jaskier settles for bed, turning them over and rearranging them. Hopefully they’ll be dry by tomorrow. They should see about getting them washed, too; the bathhouse might be able to help.

‘Geralt. Come to bed,’ Jaskier pleads. ‘I get all cold when I’m drunk. And the bed is leagues away from the fire.’

‘All right,’ laughs Geralt. ‘What kind of friend would I be if I let you freeze to death.’

‘A terrible one,’ says Jaskier. ‘But since you’re not, does that mean you’ll come to bed?’

‘Sure,’ says Geralt. He shakes out Jaskier’s damp shirt before draping it over the end of the room’s chair.

He has a warmth slowly building in his core, and he assumes it’s the alcohol at first, before he realises that it’s a kind of happiness. He’s not used to people other than his brothers wanting him around. Jaskier’s complete lack of fear is strangely comforting.

So much about the bard is strange, he muses as he takes off his boots. Geralt knows this won’t last, that he shouldn’t get too comfortable with having a travelling companion. But as he slips beneath the blankets, Jaskier’s arms embrace him, even though the boy is three-quarters asleep. And Geralt wishes he could forget that this will end. He wants to live in this moment for a while, feeling safe and content and warm.


	3. Chapter 3

Geralt finds his way back to the inn alone. Which is all to the good, really. The landlord lets him make use of the bath again, which feels like a good use of the coin he earned fighting the selkiemore. He wants to wash this whole evening off his skin.

Damn Jaskier! As though it wasn’t bad enough that he’d buttonholed Geralt while he was still suffering the after effects of the potions he took to fight the selkiemore, when Jaskier _knew_ he wasn’t at his best. And then to be shoved into a bath filled with scented oils, which Jaskier _knows_ he hates. But which Jaskier said was necessary to ‘cover the stench of death that you’re carrying with you’.

It is true that Jaskier probably doesn’t realise how much the scented oils and soaps affect him. It isn’t as though Geralt volunteers much information about the ways in which he is less than human. He tries to downplay that as much as possible. He hasn’t scared Jaskier off yet, but—on the other hand, perhaps he hasn’t scared him off precisely because he’s tried to be careful. Tried to minimise Jaskier’s awareness of that part of himself. Well, that’s paid off beautifully. Shoved into a bath with several overlapping and contrasting smells so that his nose was filled with it. His head still throbs.

Soaking in a fresh bath is helping a little to wash off Jaskier’s scented oils. Geralt would rather still smell like selkiemore guts. At least that’s a smell he can ignore.

Damn the bard! Geralt _hates_ large gatherings enough when it’s just too many people in a pub. At least then he can always escape if everything gets to be too much, or if people are too unpleasant. There’s no such way out from a royal banquet, especially not once the host recognises you and invites you up to the high table. He should’ve left when he told Jaskier he was going to. He shouldn’t have got involved. If only Mousesack hadn’t been there to recognise him. But wish in one hand, shit in the other, Vesemir always says, and see which fills up first.

He should leave tomorrow morning, before Jaskier gets back. He’ll be out with that plump woman who was fawning over him at the banquet, and he’s rarely an early riser. So if Geralt gets up as early as he usually does, he can put several hours of road dust between him and Cintra before the bard even returns to the inn. Jaskier has overstayed his part in Geralt’s life. His philandering has caused trouble for them before, has caused them to get in more than a few bar fights, and had them removed from more than one inn. But it’s never caused Geralt trouble on this scale: making an enemy of the Cintran crown, to tie him by duty (if not by the destiny Geralt doesn’t believe in) to some unborn princeling.

There are usually plenty of contracts in this part of the continent. Unsurprising, with the way Calanthe’s raids have unsettled things. No wonder there are wraiths and other unquiet dead. But now he’ll have to avoid the whole area until things settle. He should’ve left the bard in Dol Blathanna. Or Lyria. Or Redania. Or any of a _number_ of places they’d travelled over the last few years. Well, he’s paying for his foolishness now, isn’t he.

The door opens quietly, and Jaskier slips in.

‘Hey,’ he says. ‘The landlord said I might find you in here.’

Geralt doesn’t reply, letting himself slip a little further under the water.

Jaskier is still in those cloth-of-gold breeches that he’d worn at the banquet, but he’s taken the doublet off and is in his shirtsleeves. It’s an echo of this afternoon, but that Jaskier had been excited and flamboyant, trying to jolly Geralt up with sheer exuberance. This Jaskier is subdued and quiet, both in voice and in movement.

Jaskier perches on the rim of the wooden bathtub down by Geralt’s feet.

‘I’m sorry about everything that happened tonight,’ he says. ‘It wasn’t exactly how I envisioned the evening going.’

‘Hmm,’ says Geralt.

Jaskier just looks at him, as though he’s waiting for Geralt to speak. Geralt looks away.

‘I thought you’d be with that woman tonight,’ Geralt says.

‘The countess?’ asks Jaskier. ‘No, I—I wasn’t quite in the mood for love after everything that happened. Besides. You’re my friend. I couldn’t exactly leave you alone after all of that.’

‘What if I _wanted_ you to?’ demands Geralt. ‘Maybe I _want to_ _be alone_.’

Jaskier is taken aback.

‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘I didn’t think—Do you want me to go?’

‘... No,’ sighs Geralt. ‘No. Stay.’

He hates himself a little bit for giving in. He _does_ want Jaskier’s company, even now, even while he’s annoyed with him. But he shouldn’t want it. He should be firm, should say _Jaskier, we can’t travel together any more_. But he can’t make his mouth shape the words.

‘All right,’ says Jaskier. ‘Do you want me to fetch those bath salts and oils from earlier? We could have you smelling nice again.’

‘No!’ Geralt snaps, softening his tone when Jaskier looks alarmed. ‘No, they—give me a headache. I’d rather just have the plain soap.’

‘Why didn’t you say?’ Jaskier says.

He sounds dismayed. Which is why Geralt hadn’t said anything in the _first_ place. He’d been trying to save his feelings.

‘Geralt. I wouldn’t have used them if I knew they bothered you that much. I wanted you to have a nice thing before you did me an enormous favour. All right, don’t give me that look. _And_ I wanted you to be presentable at court. Which means no entrails. But mostly I wanted you to have a nice bath. I didn’t want to _torture_ you.’

Geralt makes a non-committal noise.

‘I’ll fetch the soap from my pack,’ says Jaskier. ‘Then we can get some of the perfume off you. I’m assuming it’s still bothering you?’

Geralt grunts.

‘Melitele, no wonder you were in a foul mood all evening. You poor thing. The hair wash I have is scented, too. Plague take it. Well. We could always just use soap on your hair, too, but it’ll make it pretty dry and awful. All I have oil-wise is the chamomile, I’m afraid. Unless that’s not too bad?’

‘No,’ Geralt says, his voice feeling rough. ‘No, that one’s okay.’

‘All right,’ says Jaskier. ‘I’ll be back in a jiffy. Don’t drown while I’m gone.’

Geralt closes his eyes and, true to his word, Jaskier is back before he realises. He must have brought a chair in with him, because he’s seated behind Geralt and combing oil through his hair. It’s the same chamomile-infused almond oil he uses on Geralt’s back sometimes. It isn’t necessary, most of the time. But he admits in his head that it is nice to have the worst of the knots in his back worked out. Just because he _can_ push through them, doesn’t mean that he doesn’t notice the difference in how free his movements are. He should thank Jaskier, the next time he does it. He doesn’t always think to.

Having Jaskier comb the oil through his hair is soothing, and he finds himself drifting off. He startles a little when Jaskier taps him on the shoulder to rinse his hair. He’s a little more careful in pouring the bucket of water over Geralt’s head this time, which Geralt appreciates.

Once his hair’s all washed, Jaskier passes him the cake of soap and takes up his perch by the foot of the bath again.

‘I was going to ask to borrow your bath water once you’re done,’ Jaskier says, and yawns. ‘But I’m not sure I’m awake enough. One of the Skelligans managed to pour what felt like half a tankard of ale down my back at some point, though, so I know I’ll regret it if I don’t.’

‘Maybe I won’t let you get into bed if you still smell of ale,’ teases Geralt.

‘Bully,’ says Jaskier. ‘At least avenge my death if I drown in the bath.’

‘Hmm,’ says Geralt, climbing out of the bath and accepting the linen cloth Jaskier hands him. ‘And upon whom should I visit this vengeance?’

Jaskier yawns again, stripping out of his clothes quickly and without fanfare. ‘I don’t know, Geralt. Whoever you find that you deem worthy.’

‘That sounds like a dangerously open-ended suggestion,’ Geralt says. He puts his shirt and braies back on, but is feeling far too lazy to put the silk breeches and doublet back on to climb the stairs to their room just yet.

‘You’re a good man. I trust your judgement,’ Jaskier says, climbing into the bath. ‘Gods, I didn’t know how much I needed this. I might live here now, Geralt. It’s been lovely travelling with you, but I need to marry this bath.’

‘You shouldn’t,’ Geralt says bitterly. ‘Trust my judgement. I think I showed that tonight.’

Jaskier opens his eyes and looks at him. Geralt doesn’t flinch away from his gaze; he’s been the subject of far more piercing looks from far more frightening men during his training at Kaer Morhen. But he still feels as though he is the one sitting there naked, not Jaskier.

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Jaskier says finally. ‘Of course I trust your judgement.’

It’s a plain statement of fact, and yet all the more shocking for it. Geralt could not feel more off balance if Jaskier slapped him across the face.

‘You weren’t the only fool tonight,’ Jaskier says lightly, lying back and closing his eyes again. ‘It became clear to me fairly quickly this evening that Queen Calanthe did not particularly care for me as a performer. I suspect I was only invited due to my known friendship with a certain witcher. I was the necessary evil required to get your presence.’

‘That’s absurd,’ says Geralt.

‘Is it? I don’t know if you were paying attention to the gossip of the guests, but they certainly seemed to think my theory was bang on the money. Court politics,’ he adds, dismissively. He sits up and reaches for the soap. ‘If I’m right,’ he adds, ‘That makes you the absolute hero of the evening. Not only did you save that poor cursed knight, you managed to do it in such a way that will no doubt feature in Calanthe’s nightmares for some years to come.’

‘Hmm,’ says Geralt.

‘Without your intervention, though, Urcheon would be dead. And Pavetta might have gone quite mad. She certainly seemed ready to bring the entire castle down upon our ears.

‘Meanwhile, I’m the numpty walking into the belly of the beast dragging my friend along like a sacrifice, and never once stopping to ask myself, “Wait, why isn’t she engaging one of the troubadours who spend their time amidst the courts of the continent? Why a bard who spends most of his time singing in taverns and pubs?” If I’d been a little thoughtful about the entire situation, neither of us would be in the situation we’re in now.’

‘You don’t know that’s why you were hired,’ says Geralt, frowning.

‘Well, it clearly wasn’t for my music,’ Jaskier smiles.

‘Well, then Calanthe is even more of a fool than I took her for,’ snaps Geralt.

Jaskier splays his fingers across his chest. ‘Careful, Geralt! I’ll start to think you like my music.’

He frowns. ‘I do.’

‘That’s not what you said the other night,’ Jaskier says lightly. ‘I believe I needed to “stop that horrible racket”.’

‘Everything was too loud,’ he says, uncomfortable. That was before Jaskier had left on his own business, which culminated in this banquet. Geralt had just got back to camp after taking down a kikimora, and although the bulk of the potion was out of his system—so he no longer looked like a nightmare—his senses were still heightened.

Jaskier’s face softens. ‘Well, never mind. Queen Calanthe clearly isn’t of your refined aesthetic bent. Probably for the best if we _both_ give Cintra a bit of a wide berth for a while, eh? I have a suspicion that she might apportion some of the blame for how this evening went on my undeserving head.’

‘Hmm,’ says Geralt. He hadn’t thought about Jaskier getting blamed for the evening’s disaster. It’s probably best if they keep travelling after all. For a little while, at least. Just to make sure Jaskier’s safe.

‘So, where to next?’ asks Jaskier, gesturing for Geralt’s abandoned drying cloth. ‘If you’ve no particular direction in mind, I thought it worth pointing out that we’re not all that far from Toussaint, where some university friends of mine have set up a winery. It would be nice to see them. And I believe they’re finally producing something quite drinkable, last I heard.’

‘Hmm,’ says Geralt, holding the cloth up for Jaskier to stop into. That does sound like a pleasant option. And surely winemakers are just as plagued by drowners and wraiths as the rest of the continent. ‘We’ll see.’


	4. Chapter 4

‘Jaskier. _Jaskier_. Breathe.’

Jaskier doesn’t quite seem able to hear him.

‘I thought I was ready for this, Geralt,’ he says. ‘But I’m not. I’ve forgotten everything I’ve ever known about music.’

‘Hard to forget nothing, surely,’ Geralt jokes, but shuts up when Jaskier turns hollow eyes to him. ‘Jaskier. You’ve performed for rougher crowds than this.’

And he has: Geralt has been in a hundred inns and pubs and taverns where Jaskier has performed. In Coombe, Jaskier had half a brick lobbed at him (which Geralt intercepted, and then took both it and its thrower outside to have a little discussion). The crowd here is polite, barely murmuring to each other as they wait for the next performer. There are people wearing actual _silk_ and _velvet_ and not just wool and linen and leather. No-one has thrown so much as an overripe peach. It’s a very long way from the rowdy pub crowd that Jaskier usually performs for.

‘Doesn’t matter,’ wheezes Jaskier. ‘M. Lemaitre is in the audience, and he’s going to see that I haven’t improved since university, and he’ll _tell_ me so, and then I will have to crawl away to dig my own grave in shame with my own two hands, and pull the dirt in after me as I await Death’s welcome embrace.’

‘That’s not true,’ frowns Geralt. ‘That’s not even close to true. I’ve seen you perform a hundred times over several years’—although admittedly Geralt had not been keeping track of _how many_ years it has been, and he regrets that in this moment—‘and you're far better than you were when we first met.’

‘Ta,’ says Jaskier sarcastically.

‘You were having bread thrown at you in Posada.’

‘I had bread thrown at me _last week_.’

‘By _one man_ , who was very drunk, and he got told off by the rest of the pub. You’re—better now. At managing crowds.’

‘Marvellous. I can give up this music lark and become—what? A watchman? A jester?’

Geralt frowns. He tries to think of concrete examples to give. This would be easier if he was critiquing Jaskier’s sword technique. If someone’s sword is in the wrong position, it’s a simple undeniable fact. And you can demonstrate that by meeting their sword with yours, and showing them the way that they have left themselves open to attack, or that they don’t have enough leverage to stop you, or that their grip is weak.

Geralt doesn’t have the right words to do this. If Geralt had studied music like Jaskier, he could give him the right words. What can Geralt say? ‘Your music makes me feel things I don’t expect’? ‘Sometimes when we’re apart I think of the little tunes you play around our campfire, and I listen to them in my head, and they’re so pretty I almost want to cry a little’? No. Stupid.

‘Almost no one calls me the Butcher of Blaviken any more,’ he blurts out. ‘You did that. With your songs. They’re catchy, and people _like_ them, and they teach them to other people. I hear other bards sing them sometimes, when we’re apart.’

Jaskier’s heart is still fluttering too quickly, but he has a soft kind of expression on his face.

‘A-and you can do that fast fiddly thing on that song you learnt that you couldn’t do last month. You _are_ improving. Even if I don’t know the right words to show you how.’

‘It wasn’t that hard,’ murmurs Jaskier. ‘That doesn’t prove—’

‘And they asked for you to perform here, at the festival. You have a reputation. The ground in front of the cart was completely packed when you performed yesterday. People like your music. I don’t know who this M. Lemaitre is, but if he doesn’t think you’ve improved in the last’— _why_ didn’t Geralt keep track of how long they’d been travelling? No wonder Jaskier doesn’t believe him—‘... while since you graduated, then he’s wrong.’

‘Ugh, okay, enough,’ Jaskier says. ‘You’ll give me a big head.’

‘Too late for that,’ says Geralt. ‘I always assumed your oddly large head was why you never wear hats.’

‘You know, I thought we were having a moment,’ grins Jaskier, ‘but it turns out, no, it’s just another excuse for you to mock my good looks.’

His heart is still beating faster than normal, but it no longer sounds panicky, so Geralt’s counting that as a win.

‘Go on,’ Geralt says. ‘Knock them dead.’

Jaskier gives him a wink, and heads out onto the stage.

Geralt slips out to join the crowd. Jaskier’s good; of course he’s good. There might be musicians here who play at court; there might be musicians who have studied long and hard at university and are very highly regarded by the academics there. But there’s nothing that forces you to improve as a performer quite like a hostile crowd, and since Jaskier travels everywhere with a witcher, he encounters hostile crowds more often than most.

Geralt doesn’t know if Jaskier is the best musician here. He knows that he’s biased, and that also he has very particular tastes, which Jaskier has complained about more than once. He also knows that his familiarity with Jaskier’s music means he enjoys it more. But the fact that Jaskier is a far better _performer_ than everyone else in the competition is clear as day to him. Jaskier moves about the stage, engaging the audience, catching people’s eyes. The other musicians looked like they weren’t performing so much as waiting for the sentence of execution to be passed. Geralt listened to a boy earlier with a high clear tenor, who only had a slight wobble. But even though his song was pretty, all Geralt could think was _he wouldn’t last five minutes in that tavern in Coombe._

When Jaskier’s piece is done, Geralt heads back to the tent at the back of the cart where the performers have been waiting their turn.

Jaskier’s there already when Geralt arrives, having had to fight through the crowd to make his way there. One of the girls who’s already performed kisses Jaskier on both cheeks.

‘You were _brilliant_ ,’ she gushes.

‘So were you,’ Jaskier returns. ‘I really like what you did with the call and response in the lyrics calling back to the concept of the echo and the answer.’

‘Thanks,’ she says, blushing prettily. ‘Oh! Ivan! Are you on soon?’

A lanky boy on the other side of the tent looks up, and makes his way to their little knot of people.

‘Marcella! Julian!’ he says, and kisses them on both cheeks. ‘Thanks for setting a terrifyingly high bar for the rest of us. I’m two after the guy on stage right now,’ he adds. He looks like he’s going to throw up. Geralt guesses that this might be commoner with musicians than he realised.

‘You’ll do brilliantly,’ the girl says, patting him on the shoulder.

The boy nods vaguely, and wanders off, muttering something about fresh air.

‘Geralt!’ Jaskier calls. ‘Stop loitering in the doorway and come say hello to Marcella.’

 _When in Beauclair_ , Geralt thinks. He grips Jaskier’s upper arms and kisses him on both cheeks. ‘You did well, my friend,’ he says.

Jaskier colours. ‘You’re just saying that so that I’ll buy you a drink if I win,’ he says.

‘Hello,’ says Marcella. ‘Are you Jaskier’s witcher, then?’

‘I’m sure he would say he’s his own—‘ Jaskier begins.

But Geralt says, ‘Yes.’

‘You’re so lucky, getting to listen to him play all the time,’ says Marcella dreamily.

Jaskier snorts.

‘I am,’ says Geralt. He gives Jaskier a sidelong look.

‘You say that _now_ —’ begins Jaskier, but he’s interrupted from a call across the tent.

‘Julian! Julian, my boy!’

An old man with a cloud of white hair, who must only come up to Jaskier’s shoulder, is making his way over to them, beaming. Marcella makes her excuses and heads off, but Jaskier is too distracted by the new arrival to notice.

‘Monsieur,’ says Jaskier, looking stunned.

The older man takes both of Jaskier’s hands in his. ‘Anatole, please,’ he says. ‘I’m not your master any more. Well done, my boy! Well done!’

‘Thank you,’ says Jaskier.

‘It is a pleasure to see how you’ve flourished, Julian. The way your _petals_ have _unfurled_. You have truly _blossomed_. You have done us all proud.’

Geralt has never seen Jaskier look so taken aback. He looks like a child who’s just been told that he’s to ride with the mummers as they process through town.

‘I’m pleased,’ murmured Jaskier.

‘I told the festival committee, I said, Julian was my most _promising_ student, and I have only heard good things since he has gone out to forge his own path. You must engage him as one of your featured performers! And here you are. And you have not disappointed! You are performing tomorrow, yes?’

‘Yes, after lunch.’

‘I will be there!’ says the old man. ‘Perhaps this evening I will get out my lute, eh? We can play together. Perhaps this old man is not completely past his prime!’

‘I would be honoured,’ says Jaskier.

‘Bah! You are too kind to an old man. I must go, I want to see the rest of the performers. I simply had to catch you before you disappeared at the end of the competition, eh? Good luck.’

‘Thank you,’ says Jaskier.

Jaskier stands there, still looking as though someone had slapped him in the face with a wet fish, watching the old man make his way out of the tent.

‘Is that M. Lemaitre?’ says Geralt. ‘It doesn’t seem like he agrees with you. Almost sounded like he thought you might be doing all right.’

‘I need a drink,’ says Jaskier. ‘I need about twelve drinks.’

‘Don’t you need to wait for the end of the competition?’ says Geralt.

‘Geralt,’ says Jaskier, grabbing Geralt’s shoulders. ‘I could not give a single flying fig about the outcome of the competition. M. Lemaitre called me _his most promising student_. I have already won the highest accolade any mortal man could devise.’

‘M. Lemaitre might be disappointed if you aren’t there when the judges call your name,’ says Geralt slyly. ‘It sounds like he has the ear of the festival committee too.’

‘I know what you’re doing and I hate that it’s working,’ says Jaskier. ‘Fine. We will wait until the judging is done. And then I want to drink my own bodyweight in ale.’

Geralt passes Jaskier his flask. ‘Here. This might tide you over.’

‘You are a shining beacon in the darkness,’ says Jaskier seriously. He takes a long swig. ‘Ugh, they really cannot make decent vodka around here to save their lives. Still. I could’ve done with some of this before the competition, and it was cruel of you to withhold it from me.’

‘You would be miserable if you missed a note because you were drunk on terrible vodka,’ says Geralt.

‘Bite your own arse, I have never missed a note due to booze in my life.’

‘Not sure why you needed my reassurance, then.’

‘Just didn’t want you to feel useless,’ Jaskier says, with a faux-casual shrug.

‘This is why our friendship is so important to me,’ Geralt says, one hand on his heart. ‘The love and support you give me.’

‘Yeah, yeah,’ he says, waving Geralt’s words away. ‘Thank you, though. If you hadn’t been here I would have just wound myself tighter and tighter until I snapped like an old lute string, and I’m sure I wouldn’t have had Monsieur giving me any praise at all.’

‘Least I can do,’ says Geralt.

‘Well, if we’re talking about things you could do for me, as my very best friend,’ says Jaskier. ‘How about fetching a jug of ale from the inn? Since apparently I’m stuck here for about four hundred years until the judging’s done.’

‘I could probably stretch my goodwill into doing that,’ agrees Geralt. ‘Try not to get into trouble while I’m gone.’

‘When have I _ever_ done that?’ says Jaskier with an innocent expression.

‘Do you want the list chronologically, or alphabetically by town?’ says Geralt.

Jaskier laughs, and waves him out of the tent.

Geralt knows he’s going to have to leave Jaskier eventually, but eventually isn’t today. For now, he gets to have this.


	5. Chapter 5

‘Oh! Geralt! Can we stop?’

They have been skirting the Kestrel Mountains, travelling from town to town through the lower reaches. Jaskier looks out over the scene, the blanket of flowers undulating down the gentle slopes of the mountain. It isn’t even particularly steep here. Beyond the meadow of flowers, it looks like the rest of the world is spread out just for them.

‘Geralt. _Please_ ,’Jaskier says. ‘We have enough provisions for today, and we don’t have anywhere particular that we need to be ...’

Geralt is not unmoved; Jaskier isn’t wrong. And it would be nice to get a break from the rest of their life. He’s wavering, and Jaskier can probably tell.

‘Fine,’ he says, a little gruffly. He dismounts, and it seems as though Jaskier is leading Roach away before his foot clears the stirrups.

Roach seems to be enjoying the wildflowers, in any case.

Jaskier is still favouring one leg after Geralt's last contract. It’s Jaskier's own fault he’s hurt, Geralt _told_ him to keep out of it, but ... well. Every time he thinks about it, he gets an icy hand closing around his heart. He doesn’t feel things. He knows that. His feelings are muted, stunted things, like scrub growing on salt plains. Strange misshapen things that never quite got rooted in properly, not like the way humans feel things, viscerally and _alive_. Like the way that Jaskier feels things, so that they burn through him with their intensity.

He’d nearly lost Jaskier.

He knows, he _knew_ that he was going to leave Jaskier behind for good some day. He just hadn’t expected it to be so soon. It’s _too soon_. He should tell him that they can’t do this any more. Jaskier might resent him for a bit, but at least he’ll be _safe_. The next time it won’t be a scrape on his hip and a rolled ankle. And Geralt can’t bear the thought.

Jaskier is singing something to himself without words as he lays out Roach’s blanket and fetches out the food that he’d bought at the last town, along with a glass bottle that Geralt could have _sworn_ they did not have.

‘Geralt! Come sit down with me,’ he says.

Geralt needs to stop being so fucking selfish. He needs to let Jaskier go, let Jaskier _live_. He’s known it since before that first room they shared together. When they first started travelling together, he assumed he'd leave Jaskier in a town, and then he could stop in on him every year or two, maybe share a bottle of vodka. He knows Jaskier better, now, knows that Jaskier will probably continue to travel, But he won't be wasting his time trailing after a useless witcher, won’t be putting himself needlessly in danger. He’ll sing in inns and taverns, and break hearts, and then write songs about it. They’ll be just as good as his songs about monsters. Better, probably.

‘Where did you get the bottle,’ he says gruffly.

‘Last town,’ Jaskier replies. ‘The innkeeper’s wife gave it to me. For ... services rendered.’

He winks.

‘Jaskier,’ Geralt sighs. But at least Jaskier’s indiscretions have netted them something positive for once, though. Better a bottle of something than being chased out of town and an extra night under the stars when they had a room they’d already paid for.

Jaskier cackles; there’s no other word for it.

‘Your _face_!’ he says. ‘Honestly, it really was just a favour. The muscle in her shoulder was all pinched up from when she'd been hauling a barrel out of the cellar or something, I don’t know. I wasn’t really paying attention. But it reminded me so much of the way _your_ shoulders get sometimes, so I said that I could probably help. Her husband even watched, so I didn’t upset him. So, _yes_ , technically I saw the innkeeper’s wife in a compromising position, in that she was only wearing her smock and petticoat and was a married woman, but considering that all I _actually_ saw was a little bit of décolletage and collarbone, I think she’ll survive the experience. All I touched was her shoulder, and her husband even thanked me afterwards. Apparently their local healer has been rushed off her feet with a nasty case of croup in the miller’s twins, and a fever has been going through the children of some of the outlying farms.’ Jaskier struggled with the cork for a few moments before unselfconsciously handing the bottle to Geralt. ‘I also suspect that she begrudges spending the money. It’s not as though it was a life-threatening injury, you know? I feel for her. I am going to need to get some more chamomile oil, though, or get some fresh chamomile to make some more.’

‘Hmm,’ says Geralt, pulling the cork from the bottle. It’s wine; doesn’t smell too bad, either. He’d assumed that it would be vinegary if the innkeeper was happy to hand it off for free, even if Jaskier had helped his wife. It doesn’t smell like anything particularly fancy, just an everyday red as might be produced in any of the cooler countries north of Toussaint.

‘Is it tolerable, then?’ asks Jaskier, reaching out his hand.

‘Haven’t tried it,’ says Geralt. ‘But it doesn’t smell bad.’

‘I’m calling that a win, then,’ says Jaskier.

He tips his head back and drinks straight from the bottle. Geralt would have suggested they get cups out. But Jaskier is shockingly ill-mannered for someone who went to university and presumably should know better.

‘Want some?’ Jaskier says, almost challengingly, his eyes glittering with some private joke. He waggles the bottle at Geralt until he takes it.

The glass lip of the bottle is still slightly warm from Jaskier’s mouth.

‘Good, isn’t it?’ says Jaskier.

Geralt grunts. He doesn’t have the words that Jaskier is able to line up and coax into doing tricks to describe a good bottle of wine: _full-bodied, fruity, hints of raspberry, oak and passionfruit_.

‘It’s drinkable,’ he says.

‘You’re impossible,’ says Jaskier, but there’s a little secretive smile that keeps sneaking out at the corners of his mouth.

Geralt shrugs. He knows that. He knows he’s difficult. He’s been told that a hundred times before.

‘So! As well as the bread and cheese, I was able to get a few apricots at the market yesterday, and we really have to eat these today before they get so bruised that they’re not worth eating,’ says Jaskier, unwrapping them from several layers of cloth and putting a couple of the soft fruits into Geralt’s hands. ‘I got some apples as well, which will definitely travel better. But I couldn’t resist the apricots.’

Geralt bites into one and nearly groans. He doesn’t get soft fruits like these all that often. It doesn’t seem sensible to buy them when they don’t travel well. But they’re so sweet and juicy, they’re like—How might Jaskier describe it? Like eating sunlight, maybe. He’d probably be more graceful with his words, though. 

They make goat’s cheeses around here, which are smellier and softer than the hard yellow and orange cheeses from Temeria, Kerack and Redania. Jaskier cuts a chunk with the knife he keeps on his belt, and smears it generously across the broken-open bread roll.

‘Here,’ says Jaskier, passing him the bread and cheese.

Geralt grunts in thanks and takes the bread. The cheese is good: creamy and soft. Not something he likely would have bought for himself.

‘I could look out on this view every day,’ says Jaskier. He rips off a chunk of his own bread roll with his teeth and leans back on his elbows.

Geralt is silent, looking out over the flowers spilling down the gentle slope in front of them. He needs to stop stalling, he knows. He needs to be honest with Jaskier. Tell him that their travels are at an end. At least he could be happy here.

After this next contract, he tells himself. Even though he knows he’s being a coward to put it off even that long. They’re not far from Oloví now, and there’s a basilisk terrorising the shepherds of the nearby hillside. That will give Jaskier a nice good story to finish with; he's complained that he’s never actually seen Geralt take down a draconid, so a basilisk should be a treat for him.

Geralt wishes, possibly for the first time, that he wrought things with his hands. That he could _make_ something for Jaskier to remember him by. Instead, all his hands bring is death. It’s necessary work, but it doesn’t bring much in the way of mementos.

Perhaps he can gift Jaskier with a basilisk tooth? He might still have some thin leather thong in his pack; Geralt can tie it up in that so that Jaskier can wear it around his neck. If he likes. To remember Geralt by.

‘This is one of the herbs you use for your potions, isn’t it? Celandine?’

Geralt looks up, shading his eyes and adjusting his pupils. Jaskier stands over him, holding out a stalk, yellow flowers nodding gently in the breeze.

‘It is,’ he allows.

‘It doesn’t need to be gathered specially, does it?’ asks Jaskier. ‘Only there’s a bunch of plants over there, and I thought I could gather some for you.’

‘I can do it,’ Geralt says, guiltily, making to rise.

‘Don’t be an idiot, Geralt,’ says Jaskier. ‘It doesn’t suit you. I’m already up, I know where they are, and even though I’m sure you’ll tell me later when my legs start to ache that I should’ve sat for longer, I _can’t_ sit right now.’

‘No, no special gathering directions,’ says Geralt.

‘Leaves and flowers? Stalk as well, I’m assuming?’

‘Hmm,’ agrees Geralt.

‘All right. Back in a tick,’ says Jaskier.

Geralt watches him wander off over to a patch of yellow flowers, humming to himself. It’s the same tune he’d been singing as they set up lunch. It’s a new one, he's fairly sure, though it seems that Jaskier hasn’t written words for it yet. Sometimes he seems to find the words first, and then he writes a tune to go with it, sometimes the tune seems to turn up first. The entire process is a closed book to Geralt, as alien to him as a mage’s spells.

Jaskier fits here in this meadow, Geralt thinks; a red poppy in a field of flowers.

‘Hope this is enough,’ Jaskier says, dropping a small bouquet in his lap. ‘You know, there’s another plant called celandine that grows in Kerack. My mother said they were called jaskiers where she grew up. It’s dead by this time of the year, though.’

‘Hmm,’ says Geralt. 

‘I suppose we should pack up and get going soon,’ says Jaskier. ‘Before it gets too late.’

He doesn’t move, though, and Geralt can’t make himself move either. Now that he’s made his mind up, now that he knows that his travels with Jaskier have an end, he finds himself oddly unwilling to bring it along faster. But it’s not as though they can set up camp here, where there’s no game to speak of nearby, and little shelter. And stopping here won’t put off the inevitable for very long, anyway.

‘All right, one more for the road,’ says Jaskier.

He takes a swig from the wine bottle and passes it to Geralt. Geralt takes a drink and passes it right back. Jaskier recorks it and stows it in his pack, and the two of them pack up. It’s an easy thing after all this time, and they don’t need to speak to do it. Jaskier seems to have forgotten his bad leg, and he moves with a fluidity that happiness always gives him. Geralt feels as though he’s the one with bruising.

A week later, when Borch asks him to join the dragon hunt, he sees Yennefer across the crowded inn and accepts. Some small part of him knows that he isn’t just chasing after Yennefer as always, like a scenthound finally picking up the tiniest whiff of its quarry on the breeze. He’s also running from the commitment he made to himself on that hillside. But he can always put it off until after the hunt. After all, if Borch is right and there is a dragon, surely that would be an even better final story than a basilisk.

*

**Author's Note:**

> This is going to be jossed the second season two drops and I don’t even caaaare.
> 
> Come find me on Tumblr ([jackironsides](https://jackironsides.tumblr.com/), or [jackironsidesfic](https://jackironsidesfic.tumblr.com/)) where I’m trying to juggle approximately 47 Geraskier WIPs (including this one).


End file.
